


Tell Every Lost Boy (that you're my man)

by LittleLostPieces



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Jealous Harry, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Peter Pan References, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 04:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1884927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLostPieces/pseuds/LittleLostPieces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A modern-day Peter Pan AU, wherein Harry struggles with his overwhelming jealousy when Louis brings a new mate into their makeshift family. </p>
<p>Starring Louis as Peter Pan (obviously), Harry as Tinker Bell, the others as the Lost Boys, and Greg as Wendy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Every Lost Boy (that you're my man)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [b0yfriendsinl0ve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/b0yfriendsinl0ve/gifts).



> **8/15/14** \- Re: the tags for this fic (which probably would have put me off it if I hadn't written it): Please know that I was very careful to tag anything that I feared might be triggering to anyone here, but that I normally hate to tag for anything that might be considered a spoiler. The implied references are incredibly vague allusions to backstory - a sentence each - and have absolutely nothing to do with each other or any of the other tags. (If you have any questions or reservations about them before reading, please feel free to message me on my [tumblr](http://littlelostpieces.tumblr.com/)!)
> 
> Section break quotes from JM Barrie's 1911 novel, _Peter and Wendy_.
> 
> Title from _Siren Song_ by Bat for Lashes.

**_~All this has happened before, and it will all happen again.  
But this time, it happened in London. ~_ **

It's been a good night, Harry thinks, as they wander the edge of the city in the dusky light of the early morning. The bars here are barely more than holes in the walls of burnt out and decaying buildings, dives that haven't actually ever seen better days. The clientele is as rough as the establishments themselves are, which is just fine by Harry. It's always felt a bit poetic to him, the way he and the other lads don't really fit into these places, the way their baby faces and skinny jeans don't quite belong amongst the rough and tumble crowds they rub elbows with here.

It makes sense that they always end up in the places they don't belong.

"This way, Harold!" Louis chirps, pulling him out of his own thoughts by pointing to the left when Harry knows they're meant to be heading right.

"I thought we were going to breakfast," he says, slowly jogging after Louis. 

It's tradition, breakfast is. They don't always spend the entire night together, all of the lads, but they always meet up for breakfast in the morning, swap stories and laughs over a full English, until they're too full to keep their eyes open any longer. For a chaotic group of aimless youths, their nights out are rather structured that way, he supposes.

But if he's learned anything, it's that Louis can do whatever he wants. Harry follows like a dutiful shadow.

Louis stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shrugs until his oversized denim jacket touches his ears, a clump of glitter – a remnant of the club they visited earlier, a gift of sorts from a go go boy they'd danced with for nearly an hour - falling from his shaggy hair as it brushes over the collar. 

"Just need to make one stop first," he explains, nudging Harry's elbow before he swings himself up and over a fence in the alley they've been walking.

Glancing up at the sign over the bright red door, Harry sighs and hoists himself up and over as Louis did, possibly a bit less gracefully. When he lands, while he's still wiping the dust from his own hands, he asks, "You need to make a stop into a book shop?"

"Yes."

Though he answers like it should be obvious, Harry hangs back. It's not that he thinks Louis is illiterate, but he honestly can't remember the last time he saw any of their mates pick up an actual book. Maybe Zayn has read something, but he's not sure if comic books and graphic novels count.

"Ya know," Louis starts, one hand wrapped around the handle of the door while the other fishes for something in his jacket pocket. "You didn't have to come."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Don't be daft," he says because, honestly, that's the dumbest thing Louis has maybe ever said. "Are we breaking in?" he asks, watching Louis pull a long file out and lift it to the lock.

With wide eyes, Louis stares at Harry as though _he_ is the ridiculous one here. "Does it look open to you, Harold?"

The lights are out and the shutters are closed. Also, the sign says to use the front entrance between the hours of eight and seven. So no, it does not look open to Harry.

Perhaps he shouldn't be, but Harry is impressed with the way Louis easily wiggles the lock open and pops the door inward with his shoulder. Does it say something that he finds Louis' lock-picking skills endearing? Probably, but he's absolutely more the type to just throw a bin through the window, so seeing him finesse his way in like a real-life burglar is pretty cool. It's occurs to Harry that he may be in too deep, if that's all it takes to make his cheeks flush around Louis these days.

The first light of morning is just beginning to break through the closed shutters, streams of light casting dusty guides along the floor boards and walls. The back room is filled to capacity, probably a fire hazard, with old books and records. Stepping into the actual shop isn't much better, shelves crammed so closely together and so cramped that it's nearly impossible to maneuver. 

"You look over there," Louis says, pointing to the left. "I'll take this way."

"Right," Harry nods, taking three steps before he stops short. "What am I looking for exactly?"

With a put upon sigh, Louis rests his hands on his hips and says, "My necklace," as though he's said it a thousand times already. 

He has not said it once. Harry listens to everything Louis says, and he has not mentioned his very favorite platinum acorn necklace one single time since they began trespassing in this shop. Breaking and entering. Whatever, Harry isn't as familiar with the penal system as some of his mates are.

"How did you lose your necklace?" Harry asks, feeling like Louis' answers only leave him more confused this morning. That's not unusual, but he's sure the alcohol still swimming in his veins isn't helping. "You never take it off."

Searching over the shelves immediately in front of him, Louis says, "Well, it got twisted, so I had to untwist it, didn't I?" He turns, disappears down a one aisle until Harry can only hear the sound of his voice drifting through the shop. "I took it off and a yappy dog in a stupid, little carrier snatched it right out of my hand."

"Why didn't you just ask for it back?" Harry asks, moving further away from the sound of Louis' voice, hoping that one of these ribbons of light will catch on the gleaming metal of the necklace. 

"Is now really the time to think logically, Harold?" Louis snaps.

What Harry would like to ask is how Louis knows that the dog didn't take the necklace home, but he seems less than agreeable when it comes to answering Harry's questions this morning, so Harry just takes a few more steps and examines the area around him, floor to ceiling, trying his best to think like a small puppy in a carrier bag. It's not a stretch. It's also not the weirdest thing he's considered while drunk. Or sober, come to think of it.

He's just rounded the corner into another aisle when he hears a voice asking, "Can I help you with something?"

Harry freezes, his heart kicking up a disjointed, wild and erratic rhythm against his ribs when he hears Louis shriek.

"Jesus, you scared me!" he sputters like an accusation.

"I scared you?" the man asks. "You broke into my shop!"

Tiptoeing in the direction of their voices, Harry tries to peer between the shelves to see the man confronting Louis. Is he armed? Has he already called the police? Is Louis in immediate danger? Could Harry take him out like a gangly and somewhat awkward ninja? It's hard to tell from this vantage point.

Nonplussed, Louis says, "Fair enough." He claps his hands before he says, "Right then. Yes, you can help me actually. I'm looking for a necklace. Silver, has an acorn on the end of it," he explains as though they've stopped this man in the street to ask for the time, as though he's actually interested in helping them instead of turning them over to the police. "It's a charm, the acorn, not an actual one," he clarifies.

In spite of his fear, despite his exit plans and rescue strategies, Harry rolls his eyes at Louis' audacity. He normally finds it charming. When it could easily get them both arrested, he's not as impressed. Well, maybe a little impressed. But not much.

"You were at the reading last night," the man says, his own voice softening a bit.

For some reason, that makes Harry even more tense. Of course he knew that Louis went out for about an hour yesterday evening, while the rest of them were getting ready for an actual night out, but why on Earth would he go to a reading at a book shop? And why wouldn't he mention it? More importantly, why hadn't he invited Harry? Also, why hasn't this shop owner called the police yet? Or has he?

"Must be a pretty important necklace if you're willing to risk getting arrested to find it," the man says.

Harry waits for Louis to respond in typical fashion, to puff out his chest and square his shoulders and insist that it's his business and the man can just fuck right off, thanks. 

So he's a bit baffled when Louis says, "It was my sister's," in a soft voice that almost sounds nostalgic or sad. 

Reverently, Harry drops his gaze to the floor. Louis barely talks to him about his family to Harry, to the other lads. The first instinct is always to reach for him, to cuddle him, but he can't move at the moment, shouldn't move, so he holds his breath and waits.

“I know exactly where it is,” the man says, all kindness and confusing sympathy.

"Wicked," Louis exclaims, clapping his hands together again. "Harold!"

Harry jumps, startled, and bumps into the shelf nearest his shoulder, managing to knock a couple of books onto the floor in his scramble to answer when called.

"Right," he says, mostly to himself, as he stumbles into another shelf before revealing himself. "Sorry." He might be apologizing to the books more than he is to Louis. He's not exactly thinking straight at the moment.

The man leads them into a small office, even more packed with items than the back room or the proper shop. Harry hovers in the doorway, close enough to touch Louis if something goes wrong, but Louis seems entranced by three towers of dvds on the desk, more so than the cupboard the man is unlocking on the far wall.

"So you guys just couldn't wait for another couple of hours then?" he asks, all traces of any intimidation gone as he smiles brightly at the pair of them.

It's disconcerting, to say the least. The man is tall, thinner than Harry even, with dark hair and an incredibly kind smile. The puffy bags of sleep beneath his sparkling eyes make him seem boyish and harmless.

Harry's not falling for it.

"We're very busy," Louis informs him, flipping through one of the stacks of films as though he has every right to be here. "No time to dawdle, really."

Clearing his throat, the man nods seriously. “Oh, of course. It wasn't just the thrill of the breaking and entering. No, of course it wouldn't be.”

"Course not," Louis answers immediately. "That's delinquent behavior," he adds with a sly and cheeky grin. It's the wink that bothers Harry more than he's willing to admit. "You've got quite a collection of films here."

Harry can see the chain of the necklace between the man's fingers, can't understand why he doesn't just hand it over, but waits for Louis' signal to pry it out of his grip. 

"I do," the man acknowledges. "I need to sort them a bit, but yeah, I'm a bit of a film buff, you could say."

"Wicked," Louis breathes as he starts in on the second pile.

"Yes, fascinating," Harry finally says, words spilling out without any real thought, but also without regret. "Can we just get Louis' necklace and be out of here before you decide to ring the police, please?"

The man jolts and then nods quickly. "Right, of course. So sorry," he adds, stepping closer to Louis and extending the necklace to him. "Harold, was it?" he asks, turning his attention to the door.

"Harry," is all he offers in response. There is only one person that Harry has ever allowed to call him by that stupid, horrible nickname. 

The man nods again, apparently deciding that Louis is the safer of the two of them. Anyone who actually knows Harry would say that he's as harmless as a tiny fly, but that doesn't mean he can't draw up to his full six feet, straighten his broad shoulders, and _look_ intimidating when he wants to. 

Louis is as unaffected as ever, though, smiling as he clasps the necklace around his neck. He strokes the charm for a moment and then blinks, as though pulling himself out of his emotions. 

"Thanks, mate," he says, so genuinely grateful that Harry hates this man even more. That affectionate look is Harry's, dammit.

"It's Greg," the man says, growing somewhat flustered under the glow of Louis' smile. Harry can't blame him for that. Louis' smile has disarmed bigger, more imposing men than this oversized toothpick. "My name's Greg."

"Thanks, Greg," Louis repeats, thrusting a hand forward until Greg takes it and shakes.

Harry's seen just about enough. "C'mon, Lou," he says, not bothered by the fact that he's obviously interrupting something. 

Though he drops Louis' hand, Greg turns his attention to Harry. "I'm not actually going to ring the police. I would have just let the alarm go off if I was going to do that."

"The alarm!" Louis exclaims, narrowing his eyes toward Harry, resting his hands on his hips. "Harold, I told you-,"

"You absolutely didn't," Harry interrupts with a definitive shake of his head, one limp, tired curl smacking him in the face.

Louis rolls his eyes and throws his arms into the air. "Well, I meant to." To Greg he says, "Mate, you've been a legend. Thank you again."

Something is sizzling in the air, Harry thinks. Louis might be flirting, but sometimes it's hard to tell with him. He had to jam his tongue down Harry's throat that first time, years ago now, before Harry believed that Louis actually wanted him in the same way that Harry wanted Louis.

"You're welcome," Greg finally says, clearing his throat and focusing his attention on what must be a very interesting spot on his desk. "Just don't break into my shop again, yeah?"

"C'mon, Greg! Where's your sense of adventure?"

Now he's teasing. Louis is teasing Greg as though they've been mates for years and Harry absolutely does not care for it. Not even a little bit.

"Lou, the lads are waiting for us," he reminds Louis.

"They know how to order their own breakfast," Louis snaps, his eyes drifting back to the stacks of films on Greg's desk. Louis does love a film, Harry knows, but now is not really the time.

So he snaps, which is not something he normally does with Louis, but honestly? This is getting ridiculous. "Bloody hell," he exclaims, causing both Louis and Greg to stare at him, eyes wide. "Why don't you just sit down and have a bit of a chat then? Since you and Greg are best fucking mates now and all. Should I just leave the pair of you alone for a few minutes? Days maybe?"

Fuck, but he's angry. It's safe to describe Louis as generally reckless, but this is above and beyond. There is no reason to befriend this complete stranger who may or may not be planning on filing charges against them as soon as they leave. Kindness for absolutely no reason is not something that Harry generally trusts. Louis taught him that, for fuck's sake.

When Louis rolls his eyes, Harry balls his fists. When he says, to Greg, "Don't mind Harold. Always has been a bit of a drama queen, he has." If his smile wasn't so warm when he turns it on Harry, Harry might scream. "'Swhy we love him, that and his curly, curly hair."

If anyone ever asks Harry, he'll say it's this look, this warmth and pure love radiating from Louis as they get lost in their own unspoken world for a moment, that keeps Harry where he is, why it never occurs to him to think about leaving. Even when Louis is flirting with someone else, trying to get free tea refills at the cafe on the corner or chatting up a boy in a club, it's that look that always reminds Harry that Louis is leaving with him. It's everything.

"Alright, lads," Greg says abruptly, clapping his hands together once as if that will break the trance Harry and Louis have slipped into together. If it were that easy, Harry thinks it would have been broken ages ago. "I've got actual work to do, so if you don't want to get stuck sorting dvds, you should be on your way now."

He doesn't have to tell Harry twice.

Louis, though. "How do you want them sorted?" he asks, lowering himself into a chair on the opposite side of Greg's desk.

"Louis!" Harry shouts, rubbing a hand over his face in exasperation. What is even happening?

Louis is bold, yes, and always has been. He is not, however, stupid. Harry doesn't understand what on earth is happening here or why he's taking this chance on this man who, against all logic and common sense, seems to be rather fond of Louis at the moment.

Maybe that's the problem. There's no reason for this Greg character to be kind to them, to not shove them into the back of a police car and have them carted away for breaking into his shop like they did a few minutes ago. None of it makes any kind of sense. Unless. 

Well, Harry thinks maybe it's the 'unless' that's the real problem here. Because the only reason he can figure that a grown man, a business owner, like Greg wouldn't want to turn both Harry and Louis over to the authorities for what they've done here is because he's taken some sort of shine to Louis. Some time between last night's reading, whatever that was, and today's debacle of a break-in, he's developed some sort of schoolboy crush on Louis, it's the only explanation.

Harry can't blame him, really. It took him less than twelve hours to fall for Louis, too. 

Still. 

Greg looks stunned for a moment and then smiles, this sweet, private smile that makes Harry ache to punch him directly in the throat. "Alphabetically, actually. I used to put them by genre, but I got tired of answering questions for the people who couldn't figure the system out."

He sits in his own chair while Harry watches in shocked disbelief. He's fairly certain he's still standing here, still exists on the same plane that they do. Surely they can both see him standing here and yet they are acting like they're the only two in the room, like Harry doesn't even exist. Every fight or flight instinct Harry has is telling him to grab Louis by the scruff of his neck and run.

"Are you kidding me?" he finally asks, throwing his arms out.. "Louis, we have to go. We have somewhere to be."

But Louis is, as ever, nonplussed, pushing his fringe away from his face and casting a distracted glance at Harry before returning his attention to the dvds. "Tell the boys I'm terribly sorry, but something's come up. They'll understand," Louis assures Harry before smiling at Greg again. "Zayn's very chill about these kinds of things." He says it conspiratorially, as though he has plans on telling Greg everything about each and every one of his friends whilst they sit and chat and sort dvds together. "I'll be home in a bit, yeah?" he says when Harry doesn't move.

Like fuck Harry is going to leave Louis here with this man that neither of them knows from any other random stranger on the street. He's bloody well not going to pull up a chair and help, either. This is ludicrous. "Louis, come on," he tries once more, soft voice pleading for Louis to realize just how fucking bizarre this is.

But Louis has made up his mind and there'll be no changing it now. Harry can either stand here and oversee the proceedings, or he can rush to meet up with the others, but Louis is staying put and nothing is going to sway his decision.

With a resigned sigh, Harry crosses his arms over his chest and leans in the doorway like a bouncer. "You're unbelievable," he whispers, but Greg and Louis are immersed in a conversation about romantic comedies now and neither seems to hear Harry, or even notice him at all.

**_~“But where do you live mostly now?"  
“With the lost boys."~_ **

Their house is not what Harry would call extravagant, but it's alright. It suits their needs perfectly, Harry's always thought.

Sure, it only has four bedrooms, but Niall and Liam don't seem to mind sharing so much. Harry was the first to volunteer moving into Louis' room when Liam came along, but Niall insisted that he and Liam do it since they were the newest housemates. 

Whatever, the point is that it's big enough for all of them and all of their clutter and that makes it perfectly sized for Harry. He loves this house - it's the only real home he's ever known, he thinks - and learned from Louis that it's a sanctuary, of sorts. No matter how many people they meet in the outside world, this place will always be theirs.

"So who is this Greg fellow again?" Liam asks, stopping next to an end table in the living room, dusting rag hovering just over it. "Why is he coming here?"

Louis, who likes to supervise when they're cleaning - which isn't often, to be fair - only glances over the top of the magazine he's reading to roll his eyes. "Pay attention once in awhile, Liam."

Harry wants to point out that Liam has been at work, that he wasn't here when Louis pranced into the house, declaring his utter adoration for all things Greg, and told them to get started making this place look presentable because his new friend – idol is more accurate, Harry thinks bitterly - would be here in just a few hours. He wants to assure Liam that he's lucky in that regard, but Louis probably wouldn't like it much.

"He's the bloke who owns the book shop Louis tried to break into this morning," Zayn explains from his place in front of the cupboard, where he attempts to shove video games, books, and dvds into a space that has long since outgrown their collection. 

"Right," Liam answers with a nod, setting his rag back onto the table before he stops once more. "But why is he coming here?"

Harry would like to know the same thing, actually.

This time, Louis tosses his magazine aside. "He's got a wicked film collection, Payno," he explains, as though it's any explanation at all.

"But we've got films," Liam argues, nodding toward Zayn's struggle as proof.

Liam might be Harry's new favorite person. He's the only one who makes any sense anymore, Liam is.

Louis, however, isn't swayed. "Not the same ones, have we? It's nice to venture out sometimes. Make new friends, learn new things."

He looks up at the exact moment Harry rolls his eyes, smiles like he's trying to ease the tension that's been hovering between them since they left the book shop hours ago. It's not working, as far as Harry is concerned. It won't work until Louis calls Greg and tells him to just fuck off. 

It certainly doesn't help when Zayn states the gravest of Harry's fears aloud. "Plus, Louis fancies him," he says with an amused smirk, his eyes never leaving the stacks of rubbish he's still determined to cram in the little cupboard.

"I most certainly do not!" Louis exclaims, standing from his seat and brushing his hands over his thighs primly. "He is much older than me and you know how I feel about that, Zayn." He huffs, as though this is the most offensive thing anyone has ever accused him of and, to be honest, it probably is. Louis' never taken well to the idea of aging. "I fancy his film collection. There's nothing wrong with that at all."

Harry is aware of Louis hovering around the room, flitting from one of them to the next and supervising the cleaning duties he handed out earlier, but Harry's attention is focused on the incredibly important game of Ruzzle he's playing on his phone. He doesn't know this random wanker he's been assigned to play against, but he feels sorry for him anyway. Harry's really very good at Ruzzle. 

He's still aware of Louis, always aware of Louis, when he steps into the dining room, into Harry's personal space. He leans into the touch of Louis' hand on his hair - he's never actually been angry enough to reject Louis' hands on him - and fights the urge to purr at his fingers, now scratching the crown of Harry's head.

"Are you done with the kitchen, love?" Louis asks softly, affectionately.

But Harry just gives a slight shake of his head and says, "I'm not cleaning the kitchen," distractedly.

It's the wrong thing to say, if the stilling of Louis' hand is anything to go by. "Pardon?" he asks with all of the genuine politeness of a pit bull.

"I'm not the one who invited a perfect fucking stranger into our home, Lou," Harry reminds him, pulling away enough to tilt his head back and look directly into Louis' narrowed eyes. "I'm not cleaning my kitchen for him. I don't want him here."

He crosses his arms over his chest for effect. Never let it be said that Harry can't be the most petulant little prat when he wants to be. He doesn't have to do it if he doesn't want to and Louis can't make him. So there.

Louis reaches out again, rests his hand on Harry's shoulder, and softly says, "You're being a child, Harold," as though scolding him gently will bring Harry's temper back down to earth.

"I'm not the one who invited a man I don't even know into his house, am I?" Harry counters.

Zayn whistles as he comes through on his way to the kitchen. "Somebody's jealous," he sing songs as he disappears into the other room.

"Shut up, Zayn," Harry snaps, immediately quelling the urge to apologize for his own blunt tone. It's not Zayn's fault that Louis is being an idiot after all. "There is nothing wrong with being suspicious," he goes on, if only to justify his reaction to himself. "He should have had us arrested," he reminds Louis, who has mimicked Harry's crossed armed defiance where he stands.

"Oh, is that what you wanted then?" Louis challenges. "To be carted off to jail, Harold? To spend some time in a cell this afternoon?"

Niall snorts, dropping into the seat beside Harry and shielding his plate of chips from Harry's roaming fingers. "That's not what you wanted," he says in a low voice, stuffing a chip into his mouth before he adds, "Trust me."

For a moment, Harry ignores Louis' gaze in order to rest a comforting hand on Niall's arm. They all have stories, pasts, that have brought them into this house. Even inadvertently drudging up those old memories is never Harry's aim, no matter how angry he may get at any of them, at any time. 

When Niall smiles at him around another mouthful, Harry turns his attention back to Louis. "I'm just saying that the Louis I know doesn't trust people to do things out of the kindness of their hearts. He barely trusts the ones he knows, really." Pitching his voice a bit higher, Harry says, " _Never expect something for nothing, Harold. Always be prepared to pay back a gift of kindness because that is what is always, always expected of you._ " 

"I don't sound like that," Louis insists, huffing a bit before pushing his fringe from his face. "And I'm turning over a new leaf," he declares, not only to Harry but to the room at large, possibly to the universe. "Besides, he works in a book shop. How much harm can he do?" he asks, unconcerned as he drops back to the sofa and opens his magazine once more.

Liam clears his throat. "Um."

"Shut up, Liam," Louis growls, raising an impish eyebrow and smirking when he says, "I'll put you on toilet duty."

It would be nice, Harry thinks, to jump up and scurry to work like the rest of them, but he just can't. He's known two kinds of family in his short lifetime, one who only knew to look out for their own interests, and Louis. Louis, who always seems to put everyone else's interests ahead of his own, has been the constant harbor in the storm for Harry. That he's acting out of character, upsetting the boat as it were, is more unsettling than Harry can explain. 

He doesn't know why, but he just has a terribly bad feeling about this Greg character.

**_~She did not yet know that Tink hated her with the fierce hatred.~_ **

If anyone asks, Harry is protesting. The fact that everyone is out in the lounge, laughing it up and enjoying a film while Harry sits in his room, juggling tennis balls and pretending to be too busy for them is a silent protest of a stranger's presence in his home. He's absolutely not pouting about it.

It's a worthy cause. He's absolutely right about this. He will not apologize for it. He won't give in.

Except.

Well, silent protests alone in his room are kind of boring. More importantly, it's impossible to keep an eye on the inevitable threat from here. Also, he's not entirely sure it's all that effective, this protest of his, if no one sees it happening.

Right, so the only option is to wade into the fray, to see what kind of havoc Greg is actually reeking on Harry's family, on his home, up close and personal.

Maybe it's a bit tactical, the way he strips his shirt over his head and situates his track suit bottoms a bit lower on the cuts of his hips before leaving his room. It's not unusual for Harry to parade around the house with some degree of nudity, so the lads won't think anything of it. 

Greg, though, hasn't seen the sharp cut of Harry's carefully sculpted body. He hasn't seen the transformation Harry's made over the years, doesn't know how soft Harry was before Liam started helping him work out. He deserves to know what he's dealing with, what he shouldn't be messing with, Harry thinks.

And Louis always gets handsy when Harry is naked, so yes, it's a bit tactical.

There's a huge explosion on the telly when Harry enters the room, everyone sprawling about the floor and the couches in rapt attention. Niall laughs maniacally as the door of a car goes flying across the screen, but Harry isn't bothered by him at the moment.

He's more interested in the way Greg and Louis are seated on opposite ends of the same sofa. At least they're not touching.

Greg is the first to look over, to see Harry standing there, choosing his spot carefully. He smiles, lifts his hand from the back of the sofa, waves a little when he says, “Oh, hello, Harry,” with a soft smile.

Harry mumbles a half-hearted, “Hello,” in response because, as much as he desperately wants Greg to leave, he can't just ignore him. That would be impolite.

“Come on, then,” Louis says, smiling when he turns his attention to Harry. He spreads an arm out and jiggles the popcorn bowl in his lap with the other hand. “Was just thinkin' it'd be nice to have some help finishing this.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and laughs as Harry steps around the chair he's occupying, and Harry bops him on the back of the head for good measure. Zayn just sticks his tongue out and crosses his eyes but returns to the film easily.

There's plenty of space for him to sit comfortably between Louis and Greg on the sofa, but Harry snuggles into Louis' side, crowding him up against the arm of it until they're practically sharing the same air. It's Harry's favorite place to sit, if he's honest, and if it shows Greg where Louis really belongs here, that's only a bonus.

He lets Louis feed him a few pieces of popcorn before he realizes just what they're watching. “I thought this wasn't out yet,” he says.

Louis beams at that, nodding over Harry's head. “It's not, but Greg got an early version at the shop. Wicked, yeah?”

It's all Harry can do not to roll his eyes. “Wicked,” he confirms, possibly with a grunt. “Are you cold?” he asks Louis suddenly.

“No,” Louis answers, perplexed. “Why?”

Harry rests his hand on Louis' chest and says, “You're shaking.”

With a knowing wiggle of his eyebrows, Louis says, “That'd be the pixie dust, love.” He presses a kiss to Harry's forehead and Harry forgets everyone else in the room for a moment.

He doesn't notice Greg looking suspicious and disapproving until he hears Liam explain, “It's what Louis calls energy drinks, mate, relax. He fancies himself a bit of a modern day Peter Pan, our Louis does.”

Louis shifts, straightening to look at the others without jostling Harry too much. “It's perfectly logical,” he defends, as though someone has accused him of something. “They say it gives you wings. Wings would make you fly. Pixie Dust helps Peter Pan to fly. Ergo,” he lifts his can with a flourish and then rolls his eyes as he sets it back down on the side table.

“I didn't say it wasn't logical,” Liam reminds him.

With a haughty tilt of his head, Louis says, “It was implied,” though it really wasn't.

Niall snorts without ever casting a glance in their direction. “Oh, _implied_ ,” he mocks. “Look at Lou and his big, clever words.”

They continue to bicker while Harry steals a look or two Greg's direction. He seems so amused by everything they say, by the way Liam jumps into the teasing, enamored by every stupid thing that comes out of Louis' mouth, and Harry hates him a bit more for it, if that's even possible. 

Everyone looks at Louis like he belongs on some sort of pedestal because he does, Harry knows that best of all, but this is Greg and that means Harry doesn't like it. Even in his own mind, it's beginning to feel illogical. He doesn't seem as threatening as he did this morning, all relaxed and chilled with all of Harry's closest friends around him, but he's still here and that still means something.

His simmering thoughts of anger are interrupted suddenly when Zayn stands, rolling his neck and shoulders a bit to work out the kinks. He announces, “I'm heading out for a bit,” and it probably seems strange to Greg, Harry thinks, but it's Zayn. 

If he knew Zayn, it wouldn't seem strange at all. But he doesn't, because he doesn't belong here.

“Not your cuppa, is it?” Greg asks.

Though Zayn shrugs, Harry knows it's more than that. Zayn hates being around too many people in a small space for too long, especially people he doesn't know. He hops from club to pub to club again when they go out because he needs the air in between. Even if Greg wasn't here, Zayn would be leaving right now. 

“The book was better,” Zayn offers as an excuse because it's easier than explaining the real reasons.

Though Louis snorts, Greg nods with an impressed kind of enthusiasm. “No, he's right. The book _is_ better.”

Zayn smirks and Louis throws his arms out in frustration, managing to smack Harry in the back of the head in the process. “Why do people always look so impressed when you reveal that you can actually read?” he asks, exasperated.

Greg seems immediately contrite. “Oh no, I didn't mean-,” he begins so quickly that Harry almost smiles. 

“It's fine,” Zayn assures him, crossing to the door and grabbing his jacket from the hook there. “It was nice to meet you, Greg,” he adds.

“Wait,” Liam exclaims, jumping up from the floor. “I'll go with you.”

Louis' brow furrows. “Are you not working tomorrow?”

Liam got a job at a factory not far from here just after he moved into the house, insisted that he wasn't going to freeload on Louis and his generosity, but his shifts are usually long and they start incredibly early. Though Liam has never missed one, Louis still worries. 

Louis always worries about something, like he can't live a life without a bit of anxiety.

“I'll be there,” Liam assures him, because he will be. Liam may be a bit casually thoughtless at times, but he's staunchly dependable. If he's meant to be at work, he'll be there.

“Call us if you need us,” Louis shouts, and just smiles when Zayn rolls his eyes and lets the door slam behind them.

When Greg announces, “I should be off soon, as well,” Harry very nearly rejoices. “Have to be at the shop early and all that.”

Louis isn't as joyful about it as Harry is, though. “You haven't even finished the film yet,” he reminds Greg.

But Greg checks his watch again and stands, shaking his head with another one of those annoyingly fond smiles. “I really do need to go. Why don't you just bring it back to me at the shop when you've finished it.”

“Legend,” Niall mutters, shoveling another handful of popcorn into his mouth. 

“Well, at least let me walk you out,” Louis exclaims, bouncing off the couch so quickly, Harry falls onto the arm with a thud before he can assure Louis that Greg knows where the bloody door is. 

Fantastic.

**_~“Would you like an adventure now, or would you like to have your tea first?”~_ **

For a couple of weeks, Harry convinces himself that Greg is just another of Louis' ridiculous phases, that he'll get over it and stop returning Greg's calls eventually.

It doesn't happen, though, and nearly a month after meeting Greg, Harry has taken to spending hours in his room at night, lying awake and staring at the ceiling while formulating horrible sabotage plots to get rid of Greg all together. It's awful, really, because Harry could never bring himself to physically hurt the man, or even to chase him away. Louis is clearly chuffed just having him around, and the others seem to like him as well.

Hell, Zayn's spending more time at the fucking book shop these days than he does at home. Greg has nearly talked Niall into returning to school, giving it another go, and he's introduced Liam to a friend of his who manages a construction shift nearby. The work is harder, but the hours are better and Liam's taken to the job like he was born for it.

It would be easier to hate him if he wasn't so fucking _kind_. Well, no, it's not actually all that hard for Harry to dislike Greg – he still holds Louis' attention whenever he's around – but maybe Harry would feel less guilty about it if Greg would stop smiling at him and trying to talk to Harry every time he comes to the house or out on one of Louis' stupid adventures with them. 

For instance, today. Louis wanted to have a Nerf war in the park. For a bit of added fun, they've made sure that it's warm and sunny and full of people that might accidentally get caught in the crosshairs. They've already been asked to move along twice, but Louis won't consider it a successful outing until the police have been called and they've all run home, breathless and laughing until their chests and sides ache. 

Greg seemed apprehensive at first, but he's fallen into shouting and following Louis' battle cries now, as though he's been a part of this from the beginning. He offers high fives and hugs when any of the lads score a hit and Harry is the only one who refuses to take his bait. He's had enough, honestly.

Which is why he's pouting behind a bench instead of taking the easy shot that would knock Liam out of the competition all together.

“What's wrong with you?”

Harry looks up as Zayn lowers himself to the ground, his spongy crossbow clutched lightly in his grasp. When he slings an arm across Harry's shoulder and pulls him in to ruffle his hair, Harry squirms.

“Get off.”

When he can't help stealing a glance back at Louis and Greg, now playfully circling each other with their guns drawn, he can't help the tiny growl that starts in his throat and rumbles out. Zayn chuckles and pinches his cheeks, which is irritating on multiple levels really. 

“You're so adorably jealous,” he says.

“I'm not,” Harry insists, though anyone with eyes knows he's lying. He doesn't care. “I just don't get what you all think is so fantastic about this one fucking guy, right? He's nothing like us. He doesn't belong here.”

Zayn tilts his head and purses his lips, thoughtful. “None of us really belong here, do we?” he asks pensively. “Maybe that's the point.”

With a huff, Harry tears his attention away from Louis in order to glare at Zayn. “I hate it when you do that.”

“What?” Zayn asks, his smile teasing and leading.

“Try to convince people you're deep because you say things in a soft voice with a pretty pout,” Harry explains, pressing his thumb against Zayn's lower lip. “It doesn't make your actual words mean anything at all.”

Zayn laughs and waits until it tapers into a chuckle before he shakes his head and pulls a blade of grass between his fingers. “I just think sometimes Louis may need things that are different than any of us can give him.”

And the thing is, Zayn may be right, but Harry gives Louis everything. _Everything_. He can't give any more and the thought that it's still not enough is crippling. 

“I'm not talking about sex, you idiot,” Zayn clarifies, though that's not all Harry was thinking of, not this time. “It's a family thing, I think.”

That's even worse, though, Harry thinks. “We are his family,” he insists.

With a comforting pat to Harry's thigh, Zayn says, “He knows that, babe,” and then squeezes a bit. “You don't have to like him, yeah? But maybe just lighten up on the massively cold shoulder a bit. For your own sake, I mean.” He dips his chin and narrows his eyes, though they're still sparkling lovingly so Harry can't help but be a bit charmed by the entire look. “You know how well Louis responds to anyone questioning his judgment, yeah?”

On this one point, Harry will grant that Zayn is not entirely wrong. Louis does hate when anyone dares imply that he's not one hundred percent omniscient in his decision-making, which may explain the slight bit of tension between the pair of them at the moment. Harry's tried to ignore it, to blame it on Greg – because it is his fault, at the root – but Zayn may be on to something there.

“I'll try,” is all he can honestly promise.

It's all Zayn needs, apparently. He presses a kiss to Harry's forehead and then jumps to his feet. “That's all I wanted to hear,” he declares, aiming his bow quickly before efficiently shooting Harry straight in the neck with an arrow. “Also, gotcha!” he shouts, cackling as he runs off like a wild man.

**_~I suppose it's like the ticking crocodile, isn't it? Time is chasing after all of us.~_**

Harry loves the other lads always, but never as much as on nights like this. Liam is out with mates from work and Niall has convinced Zayn to give it the big one at some of his favorite dives and haunts around the city. Harry doesn't even care that Zayn only agreed to go so Harry and Louis could have the house to themselves. He's just grateful that he finally gets some time alone with Louis.

It's been nearly a week since Harry last found himself spread out across Louis' bed, breathless and sweaty and so, so happy to have Louis' body and, more importantly, Louis' attention all to himself. He does love the family Louis has built here, of course he does, but he'd be lying if he said that he didn't sometimes miss the early days. Back then, back when it was just the pair of them, they could strip off anywhere in the house, at any time they wanted, and spend uninterrupted hours together.

“Hey,” Louis exclaims, giving Harry's thigh a pinch. “I'm doing something very nice here, Harold. Please pay attention.”

Tearing himself out of his own thoughts to smile at the golden boy lying comfortably between his spread legs, Harry says, “Couldn't ignore you if I tried, could I?” He drags lazy fingers through Louis' soft hair and smiles in spite of himself.

“Of course you couldn't,” Louis declares, as primly as possible with Harry's cock held gently in his fist. “I'm a legend at this.”

He's not wrong. Louis is absolutely lovely and completely present in this room with Harry at the moment. He's so good at knowing exactly what Harry's body needs, exactly when he needs it, and Harry wants to give him the same in return. He really does. It's just.

Louis' bloody phone won't stop buzzing with text notifications on the table and it's driving Harry fucking mad.

When it happens again, he tightens his hold on Louis' hair and gives it a tug. He might growl. Maybe. “Are you going to answer that?” he demands.

Louis just presses his head back into Harry's palm and blinks at him, slightly dazed. “Kind of busy at the moment, don't know if you noticed,” he answers, sliding his hand slowly down Harry's cock.

“Could be Greg,” Harry says with more bite than he intends. He's trying to be nicer, really he is, but he's a bit emotional at the moment. He doesn't think he can be blamed.

“Green is only gorgeous in those big eyes of yours, love,” Louis tells him sagely, smirking as he lowers his mouth to rub his lips over Harry's cock. 

“I'm not jealous,” Harry insists, knocking Louis' side with his knee. It's a lie. They both know it's a lie. Harry says it anyway, maybe in the hopes that it will some day be true.

Louis' not one to let bullshit go unanswered, though. “You are,” he insists, keeping his eyes fixed on Harry's face as he dips to bite the swell of his hipbone. “It's alright, though. I quite like it,” he says, pressing a kiss where his teeth have left a mark.

“Yeah?” Harry asks, gone a bit breathless from the combination of Louis' mouth and the compliment.

Raking his fingernails along the meat of Harry's thighs, Louis nods. His cheeks pinken a bit when he says, “I like everything about you, babe. It's why you're my favorite.”

He always says it, is the thing. He always says Harry is his favorite, but sometimes it's just easy to forget. Sometimes it's harder to believe than it probably should be. Tonight, with Louis' attention focused on him, with no one else around, it's easier. 

When Louis lowers himself back to his belly, when he sucks Harry's cock into his mouth and rolls his tongue around the head, Harry puts everything – everyone - else out of his mind. None of it matters anyway, not when he has Louis in this way. Not when Louis knows he has Harry in every way. That's all that ever matters.

Later, when Louis is leaning against the headboard, fingers threading through Harry's sweat-soaked curls, letting them fall between his fingers aimlessly, he reaches for his phone. Harry doesn't have to see him to know he's checking his texts, but he feels a bit of a thrill when Louis tosses the phone back onto the side table without answering any of them.

“It was him, wasn't it?” he asks, rolling onto his back to consider Louis' face.

He's lovely, flushed and glowing in the dim light of the bedside lamp. “Not to polite to ask,” Louis reminds him, tapping a finger playfully against Harry's nose.

But Harry only rolls his eyes and says, “I didn't have a proper upbringing,” flippantly. He wiggles and shifts until he's pressed against Louis' side, until they're pressed together from their shoulders to their hips. “What does he want?”

“Checking to see if we've had dinner yet,” Louis answers, taking Harry's hand in his his, clenching his fingers between Harry's and raising it to his mouth to kiss the knuckles. When Harry huffs – completely unintentionally, of course – Louis just laughs. “I told you to stop that, didn't I?”

He did, but he also told Harry that his jealousy was hot. They're mixed signals. Or maybe it's only hot when their dicks are hard. Sometimes Louis is confusing.

With a sigh, he grips Louis' hand in his and says, “I just think it's silly is all,” he explains, hoping that Louis will take Harry's concerns seriously for once. “You're a grown man. You don't need someone to check and make sure you've had dinner.”

He doesn't add that it's his job to make sure Louis has dinner. He's been doing that for as long as they've known each other. He hasn't failed yet and he doesn't intend to.

But Louis just shakes his head. “He wanted to invite us to dinner, idiot,” he teases, pressing a kiss to the side of Harry's head. “I don't know why you can't just like him.”

Sometimes Harry doesn't know, either. Sometimes he wants to shout that Louis is always doing this, getting distracted by shiny, new things that don't last. He gets bored and leaves them to the side when he's finished. Greg won't be any different, Harry is convinced, but it doesn't seem like the kind of thing he can tell Louis. Zayn is right when he says Louis hates people questioning his judgment about anything. He's contrary for the sake of argument most of the time.

Instead, Harry asks, “Do you fancy him?” and holds his breath for the answer.

“No,” Louis insists, rather emphatically really. 

And while Harry can breathe a little easier, he can't seem to help himself from saying, “It seems like you do.”

Louis deflates and Harry will never admit it but he finally relaxes at that. While the sex with Louis is great, this is what Harry loves about getting Louis all to himself. It takes time to break through the defenses Louis has spent a decade building, to remind him that he's safe to be completely himself here.

“I really don't,” Louis says. “It's just. I ignore the clock and I pretend I'm not growing up, but I'm twenty-two now.”

With a shrug, Harry tightens his grip when Louis tries to pull away. “So?”

“So, I'm starting to feel like I should have my shit together, Harry,” he says, a bit exasperated. “Or I should at least figure out where I've scattered it about so I can consider putting it all together.” He runs his free hand through his hair and then looks directly into Harry's eyes. “I don't know how to do that.”

While it seems ridiculous to Harry, he asks, “And you want Greg to show you how to be a proper grown up?”

“Ideally, I'd like Greg to just be the propr grown up so we never have to, really,” Louis admits, giving Harry a soft, sad smile. “I'm told it doesn't work that way, though.”

Harry's rebuttal is interrupted by a familiar ringing of Louis' phone.

Without looking at the screen, Louis runs his thumb over it and lifts it to his ear. “Yes, Zayn, what can I do for you?” His loosened shoulders tighten back up immediately as he drops Harry's hand and says, “Fuck me. Yes, we'll be there. Just try to calm him down if you can.” He tosses the phone onto the bed as he stands, pointing at Harry. “C'mon, love. Put your clothes on.”

Even as he complies, Harry asks, “What's going on?”

“Niall's pissed and running his mouth again,” Louis explains, dressing as quickly as Harry as ever seen him do anything.

Tripping into his own jeans, Harry just says, “Well, fuck,” and hurries to follow him through the house and out the door.

**_~All are keeping a sharp look-out in front, but none suspects  
that the danger may be creeping up from behind.~_ **

It's a bit of a tradition, this habit they've cultivated of throwing a massive, raging party whenever one of them – usually Niall - narrowly avoids getting themselves killed in a pub fight. By the time Harry and Louis arrived last night, Zayn had nearly snarked the drunk bastards into backing down anyway, but Louis isn't one to let a fight pass without any punches thrown.

Suffice it to say, they made it out with zeroes new scars and very few bruises to show for their efforts, so the party is in its absolute fullest effect tonight. The house is packed with more people than Harry is sure he's ever met in his entire life, music throbbing and laughter soaring high above it. 

“Who on Earth are all these people?” Greg shouts over the roar in the lounge as he elbows his way through the fray to find Louis, Harry draped over his back, at the edge of the room.

“Friends, Greg! They're our friends!” Louis shouts back, louder than necessary but not as loud as he'll be once he's had even more to drink later.

He nods toward the front door when he asks, “Those giant blokes by the door your friends, too?”

“Those are Niall's friends,” Louis answers sagely. 

To be more accurate, Harry believes those are Niall's huge cousins, the ones who always seem to show up to Louis' parties, just in case. 

Greg smiles when he asks, “Where were Niall's friends last night?”

Harry's not sure which irritates him more, Greg's implication that they aren't enough to protect Niall – though they clearly were – or that Louis already told him about the fight and invited him to the after party. 

“They're not my shadows, Gregory,” Niall declares, making his entrance into the conversation by tripping over Greg's shoe and nearly face planting. 

Ever the graceful one, that Niall. Lord of the Dance, Harry sometimes calls him in his head.

While Greg is preoccupied with helping Niall find his balance, Harry nuzzles Louis' neck and whispers, “Dance with me,” in his most pleading and pouty tone. 

Louis takes the bait easily, turning and resting his hands against Harry's chest. “There's nothing I would like more, love,” he says, stealing a kiss that is far too short for Harry's liking. He takes Harry's hand and then turns back to Greg. “Have a drink, Gregory! It's a party!”

Harry follows him into the throng of revelers, resting his hands easily on the curves of Louis' hips as they fall into sync with the music, the steady bass thrumming in Harry's chest as he watches Louis watching him.

When Louis wedges his thigh tightly between Harry's knees, grinding against him, Harry tightens his hold on Louis' waist, slipping his hands beneath the soft cotton of his tee shirt to trace the smooth skin above his jeans. If everyone went home right now, Harry isn't sure he'd notice. If the entire room melted away entirely, he probably wouldn't care.

Fingers tangled firmly in Harry's hair, Louis tugs him down until he can rest his lips against Harry's ear. “Love the way your body moves with me,” he says, voice clear and sober as far as Harry can tell.

“The other night, you said I was like a baby giraffe on the dance floor,” Harry reminds him. 

But Louis just snorts as he remembers the night Harry is referring to. “That's because you weren't dancing with me.”

Harry licks his lip, catches it between his teeth, and rolls his hips against Louis' before he asks, “Did that make you jealous?”

His eyes scream yes, but Louis' words say, “It made me sad for you, actually.” There is nothing but affection on his face when his arms loosely circle Harry's neck and he leans his body flush against Harry's longer one. “You deserve the best dance partner in the room, my beautiful boy.”

“Oh, I should go find Zayn then,” Harry retorts, beginning to pull away just slightly.

Louis plays into it perfectly, tugging Harry back until Louis can rest his cheek against Harry's shoulder. “Don't you dare find anyone else.”

Content, and with complete honesty, Harry says, “I would never.”

They dance for what could be hours or only minutes, taking a couple of breaks when people stop by to say hello but otherwise losing themselves in the touch and feel of each other.

Finally, Zayn pulls Louis away and Harry sets off for the kitchen to find a drink.

He also finds Greg, which is less than ideal really. Squaring his shoulders, he opts for the most civil approach, which is just to ignore him and hope that he doesn't notice Harry is there.

He makes it to the refrigerator before Greg says, “Hi, Harry.”

“Hi,” he responds shortly because, after all, he's trying.

“This is quite the party,” Greg says, smiling even when Harry obviously doesn't want to be talking to him at all. Why does he have to be so fucking nice?

“It's pretty tame by Louis' standards.”

Liam sounds some sort of battle cry across the lounge, Niall cackling as he chases him from the room and toward the bathroom, but Harry just shrugs when Greg raises a skeptical eyebrow in response to that. 

“Nobody's high, naked, or fighting yet, so yeah. It's still early.”

He makes to leave again when Greg asks, “Doesn't Liam have to work in the morning?”

Harry honestly doesn't have Liam's schedule memorized, not the way Greg apparently does. “If he does, he'll be there. No need to worry.”

“Somebody should, I think,” Greg says.

“What? Worry?” 

Greg nods. That's it, one simple nod of his head and every reason Harry's had for attempting to be even civil to this man just evaporates in a cloud of nothing. “Believe it or not, we were doing just fine before you showed up,” he hisses, casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure Louis is nowhere to be found.

“Louis doesn't think so.”

“You don't know what Louis thinks,” Harry tells him. He may think he does, he may think they're the very best of friends, but they aren't. Greg doesn't know Louis. He doesn't.

“I know what he's told me,” Greg assures him. “And I know you guys have had it pretty rough in the past.”

Harry's anger builds quickly, so suddenly that it takes him by surprise. “You don't know anything,” he insists, shaking his head against the very idea that Louis has told him anything about any of them. He wouldn't do that. Harry knows he wouldn't do that.

Greg confirms it when he says, “Not specifically, of course he hasn't, but I think I've been around enough now to know that you can't fix each other like you wish you could.”

“Is that why you keep coming 'round then?” Harry asks, harsher than he remembers being with anyone ever, but feeling completely justified in it. “You want to fix us, Greg? Like little broken toys that just need their pieces glued back together again?”

The uncharacteristic outburst seems to catch Greg off guard. “That's not what I meant.”

“We're not,” Harry rolls on, too upset to stop now that he's finally letting it out. “We're not things at all. We're fully functioning human beings and we are fine.”

“You're not fine,” Greg insists. 

And the thing is, if he were mocking Harry, ridiculing him for thinking something so ludicrous, it couldn't possibly be as bad as the sad, sympathetic smile he's shining Harry's way right now. The tilt and the shake of his head says that he pities Harry's inability to see Greg's truth and it pisses Harry off even more.

“We are,” he insists. “We have rough edges, of course we do, but we fit together. The five of us fit together. If you sand those edges away-,”

“The shape of everything changes,” Greg interrupts. “Maybe you don't all fit together so well anymore. That's what scares you, isn't it?”

“It doesn't scare me!” Harry shouts, grateful for the music masking his eruption from the rest of the party. “It pisses me off, because it was working. Everything was working. It wasn't broken at all until you showed up!”

Apparently, Greg's wealth of experience and knowledge is never-ending, because he sets his beer bottle on the counter before he says, “Pretending the problems weren't there didn't make them go away, though,” as though it's a reasonable position to take.

But he doesn't know. 

“Nothing fucking makes them go away!” Harry asserts. “Finding Liam a job or convincing Niall to go back to school or finding a few fucking books for Zayn to read doesn't make their goddamn problems go away. Teaching Louis to run the motherfucking washing machine doesn't fix anything, either. You think we're all hiding away from the real world, like a bunch of lost boys in our twisted version of Neverland, but you don't know why we are the way we are and you don't care. You just want us to put on our grown up suits and act like proper adults, but you don't understand anything.”

“So explain it to me,” Greg challenges, a slight nod of his head saying that he's open to hearing Harry's side of things.

Harry absolutely could share. 

He could explain how some boys grow up feeling like a burden on their already overworked and underpaid parents, those same parents never even attempting to show those boys that they're wrong to think such a thing. He could talk about boys who learn to pick pockets and shoplift before they learn to read, or boys who are forced out of their schools as instigators even though they were the ones being bullied for something as uncontrollable as their own family's heritage. 

He could explain to Greg about little boys who lie awake at night, terrified to sleep because being awakened by unwanted touches is somehow worse than hearing the creak of the bedroom door, of hearing it coming and anticipating the horror. He could weave a tale of a boy who's grown up with plenty of money and ten times the guilt for being the only one who survived the car crash that took the lives of every other member of his family. 

He could tell Greg all of their stories, if they were all his to tell, or if he had the inclination. If he wanted to go into detail, Harry absolutely could show Greg just how ugly and twisted each of them knows the world to be.

Instead, he says, "You're not my psychiatrist," and barely resists the urge to spit in Greg's face.

“I'm not trying to be,” Greg says, and Harry thinks that's probably true as far as Greg knows. He's probably genuinely trying to be helpful, but that's the problem, isn't it?

“I don't want your help,” he says, setting his unopened bottle on the table. “We don't need your help,” he adds before he turns from the room, too worked up to enjoy the party now.

He doesn't bother looking for Louis but he does motion to Zayn that he's going out before he slams the door at his own back. No one notices, but Harry doesn't want them to right now.

He just wants to walk for awhile, burn off the ache that all of this bullshit has dredged up in the last few minutes, all of the memories of his life before, of all the things he knows about his boys and why they need each other, why they can only count on each other.

This is why Louis should have left well enough alone, why they never should have let Greg through their front door in the first place. This is why they don't let other people in, people who think they have it together, that they know how the world should work, that it's okay to force that ideal on others.

He wanders, forcing himself to breathe and wondering how long it will take Louis to notice he's gone. Greg will probably tell him about Harry's outburst and it bothers him more than a little because he honestly doesn't know how Louis will react anymore. There was a time when Harry was sure that Louis would take his side in any fight, but now he's just not sure. 

More than anything, he hates that Greg was right when he said that Harry is scared of things changing. Everything about life used to confuse the hell out of Harry – nothing was fair and nothing made any sense at all – but then he met Louis. That was when things clicked into place, when he learned how to cope with his own disillusionment, how to be loved and accepted and _safe_. That can't change. Harry can't fathom the possibility, can't imagine where it will leave him then.

Taking a sharp left, Harry hops the fence around the local primary school playground and kicks the slide angrily. 

On a deep level, buried so far down that Harry can ignore it on most days, he knows this isn't Greg's fault. They're all independent thinkers, all five members of Harry's created family, and they all have choices to make. Until Greg showed up, that choice was always to raise a middle finger to the rest of the world, to close ranks and refuse to fall in line with anyone else. They've been carefree kids, fighting for survival together, always together.

Now the others are choosing to grow up and, Harry thinks as he he falls onto the merry-go-round and lies back to stare at the clear, black night, it's easier to blame Greg than to accept the people he loves are making this choice themselves.

**_~“Forget them, Wendy. Forget them all.  
Come with me where you'll never, never have to worry about grown up things again.”  
“Never is an awfully long time.”~_ **

Louis has to know that something is up. He has to know that Harry is upset. In the five years they've been a part of one another's lives, Harry's never gone a day without asking where Louis is going or just following him when he heads out for whatever adventure the day will bring. He's never gone to sleep without a proper kiss and a cuddle, usually a snog and a fuck the others will take the piss about for at least an hour the next morning. He's never shown himself capable of functioning without a hit of Louis for breakfast and dinner, at the very least.

Niall and Zayn have both asked Harry what's wrong at least twelve times since the party, less than a week ago now. They've both noticed. Louis knows Harry better than all of them combined. He has to know that something is wrong.

He doesn't ask, though. He doesn't seek Harry out, too busy spending his days at the book shop with Zayn and Greg, or dragging everyone out for one of his mischievous adventures. He's still an absolute menace, carrying on as though nothing has changed, and Harry can't bring himself to mention it. He doesn't know if he could bear the confirmation that Louis hasn't noticed or, worse, doesn't care.

He spends his days wandering around London alone, buying vintage tee shirts in out-of-the-way shops and drinking in places he's always wanted to try, places Louis' never had time or interest in visiting. He tells himself that it's alright, that it's good for people to spend time apart, that co-dependency is unhealthy. He repeats everything he's ever heard from therapists on television and in books, from the ones he was made to see as a child. 

It doesn't help, but he's been drinking with an old bloke in a pub since noon when he gets a text from Niall that he needs to come home, so he doesn't actually care. He ignores the text and orders another round.

He ignores the texts from Liam and Zayn as well.

Though he'd really like to, he can't ignore the one from Louis. _You're needed at home, love._

“I'm weak,” he slurs to the man at his side. It might be a different bloke from the one he was sat next to before, now that he thinks of it. He's been here for five hours, though, drinking pint after pint with only a sandwich to absorb the alcohol nearly three hours ago now. 

There's a hand on his thigh and the man sat next to him now smiles like a shark before licking his lips like a hungry Rottweiler. Apparently, drunk Harry is a fan of the animal kingdom in general.

“I'm a fan of animals meself,” the man says, alcohol sweating from his pores as he squeezes the meat of Harry's thigh, massaging. “So primal and raw, acting on instinct without worry about silly things like emotions.”

Oh, Christ. Harry doesn't roll his eyes but it's only nearly. With one hand on his phone and the other on his near empty pint glass, he calls out to the bartender. “Put this on Louis' tab, yeah? I'll make sure he settles it tomorrow.”

“He don't deserve you,” the man says.

Harry takes a deep, sobering breath. The way the man keeps leaning in helps with the sobering more than a bit, really. “Can you take your hand off my leg, please?”

He does as asked, shaking his head with a chuckle. “You don't have to keep running back to someone who hurts you, Harry,” the bloke says.

Harry blinks because, honestly, he really does need to learn to keep his mouth shut when he drinks. Niall's always telling him as much. 

“It's not what you think,” is the only explanation Harry offers as he turns to go. 

Louis doesn't hurt him, not on purpose. He wouldn't ever and Harry knows that, knows that he would _never_ hurt anyone he loves intentionally. He loves his boys, more than anything in the world. Even drunk, Harry knows that. Sure, he's frustrating sometimes, blind to what Harry really feels because Harry's never actually told him, but he's not malicious or vindictive about it. 

His head's still a bit fuzzy when he gets back to the house, but he's clearer now, ready for whatever is awaiting him, whatever is so important that every one of the boys needed him back for it. It's been awhile since they've had a family meeting.

Except, when he walks through the door, it's not just family. It's family, plus Greg. Harry hasn't seen him since the party but, as it turns out, absence hasn't made his heart any fonder.

“What's going on?” he asks when they all turn to look at him.

Louis holds his arm out, smiling like he's forgotten that Harry is avoiding him. “Greg has something to tell us, Harold. C'mon then.”

Harry goes, because of course he does. He settles into Louis' side and releases a breath it feels like he's been holding for ages when Louis' fingers trace the curve of his bicep beneath the sleeve of his shirt. 

“So what's this about?” Harry asks.

“We don't know yet, do we?” Zayn asks, smiling a bit when Harry flicks him off.

Louis turns his attention to Harry, the attention Harry's been pretending he doesn't need for the better part of a week. “Where have you been anyway?” he asks, sniffing at Harry's neck and pulling a crinkled face.

“Out,” Harry tells him.

“Thank you for that detailed description, Harold,” Louis deadpans.

Harry winks, feeling more playful than he has in days because Louis is here, looking at him, and things feel right again. He feels right, and isn't that just pathetic? 

“Anything for you, babe,” he teases.

Louis pecks a soft kiss on the end of Harry's nose and he fucking giggles, which he'll blame on the alcohol though they'll both know it's a wellspring of affection that's been waiting for the chance to spill over as of late.

“Alright,” Greg says, clearing his throat to interrupt the moment. “Um, as you all know, opening the book shop was always a childhood dream of mine, and I was completely chuffed when I got the chance to make that happen, because it was a life surrounded by books and opportunities and people, like all of you, for example.”

Niall snorts. “I'm feelin' all warm inside, Gregory,” he says, kicking his foot toward Greg, though it lands nowhere close.

The smile Greg gives him in return is so warm, so affectionate, that Harry almost allows himself a moment of liking the guy. Almost. Just a tiny bit.

“Anyway,” Greg continues, clearing his throat. “Getting to know all of you has been fantastic, seeing the way you love each other and are there for each other all the time. It's actually very inspiring.”

Liam leans forward from his place next to Zayn and says, “I feel like there's a 'but' coming.”

If Harry sniggers a bit, it's only because he's emotionally immature. It's fine. Louis and Niall chuckle, too, because they all are, a bit.

But Greg just smiles. “But,” he says, adding his own little laugh, “it's also reminded me of how important my own family is. My brother's trying his hand at opening a sandwich shop in America now, you know.”

Harry doesn't know, but the others are nodding their heads like they do. 

“Do you want to go visit him?” Louis asks, his hand still circling Harry's skin slowly. “I can lend you the money, you know that.”

But Greg shakes his head. “That's very sweet, Lou, really,” he says. “He's been asking me to come help him with the start up for ages now, actually. I've hesitated, because of my own shop and all, but I think it's time for me to go. I just wanted to let you all know I'll be moving in a few weeks time.”

“Moving?” Niall asks. “That sound permanent.”

When Greg nods, Louis' hand stops moving and Harry's shoulders stiffen. 

“I'm not saying I'll never come home again, obviously. I'll be back in time, I imagine, but for now it will be, let's call it semi-permanent.”

“But what about the shop?” Zayn asks. “You love your shop.”

Greg shifts his attention from Louis, where it's been fixed for the most part, to Zayn. “That's part of what I wanted to talk to you about. I was wondering if you would be interested in taking over for me.”

Zayn laughs. “Me?” he asks, incredulous.

With a firm nod, Greg leans forward and folds his hands between his knees. He looks like he's speaking to a child, Harry thinks. “You know more than anyone about how the shop runs these days, Zayn. I've taught you everything you need to know. Lou, too, so he could help you if he wanted to. You'd be the perfect manager, I think.”

“That's,” Zayn starts and then snaps his mouth shut. “That's a huge gift, Greg. I don't know.”

“I'll still own it,” Greg assures him. “You'll still report to me, and you can always text me with any questions you might have, of course. It's well within your capability to take over, though, Zayn. If you're willing to try, I have every confidence in your ability.”

With a gulp, Zayn nods. “I'll give it a go, yeah, of course.”

“That's wicked, mate,” Liam whispers, though Liam's not that great at whispering really.

Zayn nods, but Louis spits, “This is bullshit,” pulling away from Harry. He looks positively murderous when he zeroes in on Greg's surprised expression. “Sod your fucking shop, Greg, what about us?”

“Louis,” Greg starts.

“Oh, I'm sorry, you're right,” Louis interrupts sarcastically. “I'll just sit here and pretend it's all fine because that's the mature thing to do, isn't it? Just pretend it's all fine because grown ups understand that people always leave, no matter how much you wish they wouldn't.”

Harry wants to reach out to him, to cuddle him close and assure him that not everyone leaves, to let Louis know that he gets where he's coming from, knows why this is so hard for him. Coddling him in front of everyone won't work, though, not when he's in a mood like this.

“You're going to be alright, Louis,” Greg tells him, softly because no matter how much Louis thinks Greg has taught them about growing up, Harry knows he stills sees them as lost little boys. 

“I can't do this,” Louis announces, standing and walking from the room.

They all sit in silence until the sound of his bedroom door slamming rings through the house. 

“I should get going now,” Greg says, standing along with the others.

Harry stays on the couch, though. He's torn between wanting to follow Louis and wanting to scream at Greg. It's still true that Harry never wanted him around, but it's because he's always feared this very thing. Every time Louis gets close to someone else, someone who isn't like them, who doesn't understand them, he gets hurt. Harry thinks he would do anything to protect Louis, even if that includes begging Greg to reconsider.

But he can't. He can't make himself move, can't decide which way to go here. He doesn't know how to fix it – Louis is the one who fixes things, after all – and he's not sure he's ever felt more helpless.

  
****

**_~For hours he could not be separated from these dreams, though he wailed piteously in them.  
They had to do, I think,with the riddle of his existence.~_**

****

 

They don't see Louis for another two days. Zayn slips in and out of his room a couple of times, a hazy cloud following him out after an hour or so, but he's otherwise holed himself up in his room like some kind of hermit. He could be pissing in a jar for all Harry knows.

“He'll get over it,” Niall tells him when Harry spends too long staring down the hallway instead of eating his breakfast.

Harry just nods and shovels a spoonful of cereal into his mouth, but he doesn't agree. They don't know. They haven't seen Louis like this because it hasn't happened in such a long time, but Harry has seen it. He knows that Louis will find a way to shove it down and pretend he's over it, but he'll never actually get over it.

His hands tremble a bit on the tray later that evening, the plate shuddering against it as Harry makes his way down the hall. He barely knocks on the door before he lets himself in, closing it tightly behind him.

“I brought dinner,” he announces.

Louis looks up from the bed, eyes rimmed red. That'll be from lack of sleep, Harry thinks, because Louis doesn't cry. Not anymore, not in a very long time. He likes to say he cried all of his tears when he was twelve, that he has no more to give and that he never will. Harry's not sure that's how it works, but if that's what Louis needs to believe, he won't begrudge him.

“I'm not hungry,” is all Louis says, shrugging deeper into his oversized hoodie.

Harry rests the tray on his bedside table anyway. It's got all of his favorites, chicken and mash with the gravy Harry learned to make from his nan when he was probably too young to be using the hob. He was too young for a lot of things back then.

“You have to eat, babe,” Harry reminds him, reaching out to touch Louis' dirty hair. 

With his eyes fixed on the large television screen, blankly staring at an episode of _Breaking Bad_ Harry knows Louis has seen at least seven times already, Louis shrugs away from Harry's hand wordlessly. 

“C'mon, Lou,” he tries again, ignoring the squeezing ache in his chest at the rejection.

Louis turns a narrowed, angry glare at Harry and says, “I really can't deal with you right now, so just go.”

“Me?” Harry asks, stepping away as though Louis' just caught on fire.

But no, that's not right. If Louis were in flames, Harry would be the first to throw himself over him, to save him as best he could. Honestly, he's not sure of any scenario that would make him draw back from Louis at all, none but this one apparently.

“You never wanted him here in the first place.”

Louis' voice is venomous, even when it cracks from days of disuse. His tone is accusatory, his eyes dark and livid.

“It's not my fault he left!” Harry is quick to defend, immediate and instinctive.

“You certainly didn't ask him to stay!” Louis shouts back, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

Sometimes Harry wishes that Louis didn't know exactly which of his buttons to push to bring out the fight Harry tries so hard to keep repressed most of the time. None of the other boys know how to make him this angry this quickly. Only Louis. It's only ever Louis.

“What would it have mattered, honestly? He'd already decided that he was going to go, hadn't he? If you couldn't make him stay, I sure as hell couldn't make him leave!” 

Sitting up a bit straighter, Louis nearly hisses. “He told me about the party. About what you said to him at the party, you selfish asshole. He told me that you said we didn't need him!”

“We don't!” Harry insists because he still contends that he's never said anything untrue to Greg or anyone else. “You're delusional if you think that my opinion of him made him leave, Louis. I've barely been civil to him since the beginning and he just kept coming 'round. I can't believe you're blaming me for this!” 

“It's the only thing that makes any sense!” 

It's not the only thing, and Harry knows Louis is thinking it right now. There has to be a reason, in his mind there's always a reason that people just disappear from his life. There is no random chance when it comes to being abandoned, no meaningless coincidence or unfair circumstance. There has to be a reason, and when Louis exhausts all of them, he takes all of the blame onto his own shoulders. He's blaming Harry out loud, but in his head, it's all on him. 

If only Louis could see the truth, that it's not his fault. Sometimes shit things just happen. 

He reaches out once more, nearly whispering when he says, “He misses his family, Lou. Surely you know what that feels like.”

As soon as it's out, he knows it's the absolute wrong thing to say.

Instead of pulling away, Louis surges forward and pushes Harry back toward the door. “Get out,” he orders, voice panicked and rising.

“I didn't mean-,” Harry starts to backpedal, but it's not enough.

Louis pushes him again, shouting, “Get out of my sight. Get out!” 

He stands, blinking at the closed door for several seconds, processing and hating and fighting tears, but it won't matter. He's gone too far. He can't take it back. 

There's only one thing that has always been off limits, one thing that Harry is never meant to mention to Louis or anyone else. If Louis chooses to speak of it in extreme moments of emotional weakness, fine, but Harry can't comment. He knows that. It's an unspoken rule between them, always has been. 

Now Harry's broken that rule and, he fears, the trust that's always bound them together. Louis' forgiven him of some really stupid things in the past but Harry's not sure he'll ever forgive him this one.

**_~He looked at her uncomfortably; blinking, you know,  
like one not sure whether he was awake or asleep.~_ **

Everything's so foggy. Harry doesn't understand why or how it happened, snippets and portions of the night slipping in and out of his grasp like flashes from a tripped out film across his eyelids.

He only went to the club tonight because Niall asked him to, he remembers that. Louis hasn't talked to him in what feels like ages. This morning, Niall told him that Louis had ordered them to look after Harry because he couldn't do it himself at the moment. He was still mad this morning, Louis was, remembers thinking that he deserved it but now he can't quite place why.

“Babe,” Louis' voice breaks through the fog a bit, but Harry can't see him. “You gotta wake up for me, okay? Stay awake for me, love.”

“M'kay,” Harry answers, at least he thinks he does, but his mouth feels strange, like his tongue's gone all fat or something.

He remembers thinking he wouldn't go to the club, didn't want to piss Louis off any further even if Niall said it was alright, but he decided to go anyway at the last minute. He remembers walking in, remembers flashing lights and a pounding bass line. He saw Louis at the bar, talking with some laddy lad in a too-tight tee shirt and ugly tattoos.

“Dammit, Niall, drive faster!” Louis shouts from somewhere above Harry, but Harry still can't see him, even if he tries. 

“I'm goin' as fast as I fucking can,” Niall snaps back. He sounds angry. Or maybe panicked. It's hard to tell right now. “Can't exactly get us pulled over with him all strung out, can I?”

Strung out. But Harry didn't take anything. Oh. Right.

There was another bloke, smaller. Harry thinks he looked shifty, like a little weasel or maybe a ferret. But not as cute as a ferret. The bloke was not cute at all, not with the way he kept watching Louis' back as he spoke and gestured animatedly. He wasn't cute when he dropped something in Louis' drink, something Harry couldn't see.

“Just get us home. I don't fucking care how,” Louis screams. 

It hurts Harry's ears, the screaming. Something's gone wrong. He can't focus and he can't feel his fingers or his toes. Everything is heavy and blurred. He doesn't feel right at all.

“Lou,” he says, though it's mumbled behind his stupid lips, because they're not working right, either.

“I'm right here, babe,” Louis says, touching Harry's face so, so gently. “Can you open your eyes for me, sweetheart? Open those pretty green eyes for me, yeah?”

He does, but it feels like they weigh a million pounds each. “Hi,” he finally says when a fuzzy version of Louis swims into his vision, still dark around the edges and too bright in the middle. 

“Hi, love,” Louis says, and it sounds like he's whispering now, slipping further away. Harry can't quite make out his features, but his hand feels leaden against Harry's cheek. 

The drink, he remembers that. He remembers being angry, so very angry, and charging toward the bar with every intention of knocking the teeth from the weasel-ferret's head, wanting to kill him more than he's ever wanted to kill anyone, and he's been quite angry more than once in his lifetime.

But Louis was about to drink from the tumbler on the bar, about to drink whatever that asshole had slipped him, and Harry couldn't stop him and commit murder at once. He snatched the glass from Louis, sloshing some of it over both of their hands. 

Louis wasn't so gentle with Harry then, not like he is now. He looked as angry as Harry felt and Harry forgot what he was doing for a moment. He panicked, if he's honest, and drank the entire glass in one go. He just forgot for a second, just one, and now he can't feel anything.

“Love you,” he mutters, because he does and Louis should know. He would have taken whatever was in that drink straight up if it meant saving Louis from whatever that rodent of a man at the bar was planning. “Love,” he repeats, the words painful in his throat.

“Love you, too, little bug,” Louis responds, pressing his lips to Harry's forehead. 

Harry lets his eyes drift closed at the pressure, humming a bit. He's so incredibly tired. “Yours,” he thinks he says. “F'rever.”

“You are mine, aren't you?” Louis asks him, bent right over his face like it's their little secret. “My very favorite boy in the whole world.”

“More,” Harry says. He wants to be more than Louis' favorite, more than he is, more than they are. He wants to be everything, even if it's unhealthy or co-dependent or whatever they're not supposed to be. 

Louis continues to run his fingers through Harry's sweaty curls as he coos and whispers, “We're almost home, babe. Just a bit further and you'll be alright, innit? Won't let anything happen to you.”

He's still talking when Harry drifts into sleep.

**_~To live will be an awfully big adventure.~_ **

His head is pounding and his body aches. Harry isn't sure he's even awake at the moment.

“Lou?” he says, voice scratching like pins and needles when he speaks.

“I'm right here,” Louis answers immediately, his hand squeezing Harry's. He sniffles a bit, like he's been crying, but that can't be right.

“M'I alive?” 

Louis' voice is soft, right next to Harry's ear, when he says, “Yeah, you're alive.”

“Doesn't feel like it,” Harry grunts as he shifts and groans, his entire body like a giant bruise.

“Are you in pain?” 

Harry tries to sit, but the room starts spinning. “Dizzy,” he mutters.

“Lie down, silly,” Louis commands, his hands easing Harry back.

He gropes for more of Louis, more than just his hand. “Lie with me.”

“I can do that.”

Maybe it's because they've been so distant lately, so angry and separate, but Louis' body feels like a balm when it's pressed against Harry's back, his arms wrapping tight around Harry's chest and easing the ache there until Harry can breathe again.

“Don't leave me,” he mumbles as sleep begins to chase him once more.

Louis promises, “Never,” and seals it with a kiss against Harry's shoulder.

**_~Don't you understand, Tink? You mean more to me than anything in this whole world! ~_ **

The next time Harry awakens, his eyes blink open easily. He's in his own room, the curtains drawn with only a bit of moonlight shining through. He stretches his back, still a bit achey but loads better than before, and he really needs a toilet.

“You're awake,” Louis says when Harry starts to pull away. “Where are you going?”

Harry smiles at the confused tone in Louis voice but he doesn't turn to look at him for fear he'll never leave the bed. That could get messy.

“Need a wee,” he says, making his way to his feet and taking just a moment to find his balance. Fuck, but he's exhausted.

“Do you need a hand?” Louis asks, all concern and worry.

This is the point where, once upon a time, Harry would throw him a lurid wink and a cheeky smile, where he'd make some innuendo about Louis' hand on his cock, but his brain isn't exactly making the connections yet. 

“I'm alright,” he promises, taking slow steps out of the room and bracing himself against the wall until he makes it to the toilet.

When he returns to his room, Louis is still in his bed, sat against the headboard with his legs stretched out, watching his toes and twisting his fingers together nervously. His head snaps up when Harry walks in, eyes carefully tracking Harry's progress until he drops into the bed at Louis' side.

“How're you feeling?” he asks, immediately reaching for Harry's hand and tangling their fingers together.

Harry's first instinct is to say _everything's fine_ , if for no other reason than to ease Louis' fears, but he opts for honesty, too wrung out to force a lie. “Like I got run over by a big red bus.”

“Can you,” Louis starts, gently resting an arm around Harry's shoulder and then watching his face closely. “Does it hurt if I cuddle you a bit?”

“No,” Harry insists, snuggling closer to Louis' chest until he can sag against him completely.

“Are you just saying that so I'll cuddle you?” Louis asks into the crown of Harry's head, pressing a kiss there as punctuation.

With a soft chuckle, Harry admits, “I would do, but no. I'm sore, but it doesn't hurt. Well, aside from my head a bit, I suppose.”

“That's because bloody Liam knocked it on the top of the car when we were bringing you into the house,” Louis grouses, kissing Harry's head again as though that will help.

It does, actually. “Bloody Liam,” he grumbles back, giggling when Louis moves his kisses to Harry's neck, where he knows Harry is ticklish. 

“He loves you,” Louis defends, as though Harry didn't know that. “You gave us all quite a fright.”

“I didn't mean to.”

Louis hums and rests his chin on Harry's shoulder, speaking into the side of Harry's face. “I know, love. None of this was your fault at all. None of it.”

He sees the man again, in a flash across his brain, squeezing drops of a small bottle into Louis' drink. “He was going to-,”

“But he didn't,” Louis interrupts, giving the corner of Harry's jaw a little nibble. “He didn't because you saved me.”

“I had to,” is all Harry can think to say. 

But Louis isn't having it. “You didn't. I've been horrible lately.”

While it's true, he has, it doesn't change anything. He learned that from Louis himself, that just because someone wakes up feeling a bit assy, you don't just stop loving them, watching out for them. Besides, Harry can't bear to let Louis feel any worse about himself than he has recently. He shifts a bit, twisting in Louis' arms until he can look into his face, Louis' hand falling from Harry's shoulder to his hip. 

“You had your reasons,” he excuses.

“I got caught up, I think, in having someone to watch out for us.”

With a sigh, Harry reaches across his stomach and laces his fingers with Louis' against his hip. “We don't need that, you know? We have you.”

“I'm the biggest mess of us all.” 

Harry isn't sure Louis' ever as cute as he is when he snorts and rolls his eyes, self-deprecating and proud all at once. 

“That's why you're the best choice for our captain, I think,” he says, kissing the hollow of Louis' throat because it's the only thing he can reach from this angle.

Louis boops Harry's nose with his index finger before he says, “You're still a bit loopy, I think.”

“I'm not,” Harry insists, wiggling a bit so he can sit up and look Louis directly in his eyes. This is important. Louis needs to hear him. “You are always there for us, always. So the fuck what if you don't always get it right. None of us do, dummy. We're human. And I may not know much about being a bloody adult, but I don't think you just magically figure it all out when you turn twenty-two.”

He doesn't point out that they've all known adults who didn't know a thing about life, who raised them with twisted versions of reality, who did the best they could but fucked up anyway because that's what human people do.

He rubs his palm against Louis' jaw and rest it against his neck, bringing their foreheads together when he says, “It's alright, Lou. You keep trying and keep looking out for us, for me, and doing your best. That's all any of us can do, isn't it? Just keep trying?”

For a long moment, Louis just stares at him, lost in his own thoughts and Harry's eyes it would seem. “You're pretty smart, did you know that?”

“Learned from the best, didn't I?” Harry asks, his lips brushing Louis' when he speaks.

Louis gives into the kiss, only for a second, and then pulls back far enough to break. “Alright, that's enough with all of the emotions for the moment, I think. You've had quite the trauma.”

There are still things Louis needs to understand, though. There are things Harry needs to tell him. “What I said in the car last night, I meant it, you know? I do love you.”

“You don't know what you said last night,” Louis dismisses, casting a glance at the ceiling and then to the bed between them, anywhere but right at Harry.

Gripping his chin, Harry draws Louis' attention back to his face and says, “I do,” as firmly as he can. “And I meant it.”

“You were drugged.”

“Doesn't make it untrue,” Harry insists. 

He doesn't remember much of last night, but he's loved Louis for a hell of a lot longer than that anyway. The circumstances of the last twenty-four hours don't change that.

With a sigh, Louis sags and looks about as tired as Harry has ever seen him. “Let's focus on getting you back on your feet and then we'll worry about all of this soppy romance, alright?”

“If you want,” Harry finally concedes, tilting forward to kiss Louis' chin. “It's not going to change how I feel, though.”

Louis leans Harry back against the headboard, makes sure that he's stable, and then swings a leg over his lap to straddle his legs. He buries both of his hands in Harry's hair and says, “I know,” with a fond smile, the one Harry likes to think is reserved only for him. Louis all but confirms it when he admits, “Me, too.”

And that's. Well that's bloody huge. That's. 

“Yeah?” Harry asks, because he's had some wild fantasies about Louis in his time, but never has he let himself believe that maybe Louis might want the same thing he does. Maybe he should have.

“Of course, you blind tit,” Louis teases, releasing Harry's hair and looping his arms around Harry's neck. “What did you think I meant every fucking time I call you my favorite?”

Not that he was as ass-backwards, head-over-heels in love with Harry as Harry is with him, that's for sure. But now that he's saying it, looking at Harry with not only affection but also sincerity, Harry can't help but believe it. Louis' never lied to him before, after all.

“Hm,” he hums happily, leaning forward to nuzzle at Louis' throat.

“Alright,” Louis says, sitting back a bit. “You don't have to look so smug about it.”

Harry squeezes at Louis' hips and smiles what feels like his first real, genuine, happy smile in absolute ages. “But I am,” he beams. “You love me.”

Though he rolls his eyes again, Louis nods. “I really do.”

He presses a kiss to Harry's mouth, but when Harry opens to him, he coughs and pulls back, slapping a hand over his mouth and knocking his sore head against the headboard.

Louis climbs off of him and tuts, rubbing at Harry's head and laughing as Harry breathes onto his hand and smells how completely foul his breath is.

“That's horrible, that,” he cringes.

Resigned but still chuckling, Louis sits at Harry's side and reaches for his hand, pulling it to his lips and kissing each of Harry's knuckles before he says, “Probably from all that vomiting Zayn made you do, I suspect.” Off of Harry's skeptical look, he shrugs. “I wanted to clap my hands and believe you better, but Zayn said we should make you throw up to get as much of it out of your system as we could.”

Harry glowers, or gets as close to it as he ever gets with Louis. He suspects he probably looks more like an irritated kitten really, but Louis doesn't complain. “I'm not actually Tinker Bell, Lou.”

“Aren't you?” Louis asks, his eyebrow raising as he kisses Harry's fingers again. “Aren't you my sexy little forever sidekick, Harold? I mean, you did drink the poison to save me, didn't you?” He rests his head against the wall and adds, “You're my jealous little pocket fairy, you are. I'll never grow up and you'll always have my back. Those three out there,” he nods toward the door and then winks impishly at Harry before brushing his fringe out of his eyes. “Well, you get the drift.”

Harry doesn't actually need it spelled out for him. The analogy is pretty fucking obvious, really. 

So instead he pulls away from Louis and stands again, feeling a bit like he could float straight into the toilet to clean his teeth at the moment, and then he swoops back into to offer Louis a surprise kiss. 

“You brush your teeth and I'll go get us some food, yeah? Meet me in my room. Haven't cuddled you properly in ages, Harold.”

Harry nods, letting Louis guide him from the room because it makes Louis feel better. Also because the events of the last twenty minutes or so have made him feel more wobbly than he did before Louis' love declaration.

Outside the bathroom, Louis leans up on his toes and whispers, “Just so we're clear, when I said 'cuddled,' I actually meant 'fucked.' When I'm sure you're feeling up to it, of course.”

Harry's breath hitches in his throat. He's not up to it quite yet, but he doesn't think it will take him that long. Now that he knows they'll both be thinking the same thing, feeling the same thing, when they're in that bed together, he's quite anxious for his body to recoup.

For fear of sounding as eager as they both know he is, Harry just shakes his head and pushes Louis' shoulder when he says, “Silly ass.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://littlelostpieces.tumblr.com/) if you'd like!


End file.
